her mother had reprimanded, eyeing him reprovingly as she trotted her own mare between them, obliging him to leap back lest he be trampled. “To dawdle with them is an unkindness, as you oblige them to interaction they are not trained for, and take them away from their work. Really, you know better.”
Honoria hadn’t said a word, nor did she look back as she’d obediently cantered away at the side of her mother.
But he’d retrieved her handkerchief from where it’d floated to the ground in her wake.
From that day on, it was her image painted on the backs of his eyelids when he closed them at night. Even when the scent of rosewater had faded from his treasure.
Today, two of the three maids in the household had been too ill to work, and so the harried housekeeper tasked Titus with hauling the kindling into the east wing of the Mayfair Manse to lay and light the fires before the family roused.
He’d lit the master’s first, then the mistress’s, and had skipped Honoria’s room for the nursery where the seven-year-old twins, Mercy and Felicity slept.
Felicity hadn’t been sleeping, as she’d been huddled in bed, her golden head bent over a book as she squinted in the early morning gloom. The sweet-natured girl had given him a shy little wave as he tiptoed in and lit her a warm fire.
Against the mores of propriety, she’d thanked him in a whisper, and blushed when he’d given her a two-fingered salute before shutting the door behind him with a barely audible click. After tending to the hearths of the governess and the second-eldest Goode sister, Prudence, Titus finally found himself at Honoria’s door.
He peered about the hall guiltily before admonishing himself for being ridiculous.
He was supposed to be here. It wouldn’t do to squander this stroke of luck and not take any opportunity he could to be near her.
Alone.
Balancing the burden of kindling against his side with one arm, he reached for the latch of her doorway, then paused, examining his hands with disgust. He flexed knuckles stained black from shoveling and hauling coal into the burner of the huge stove that heated steam for the first two floors of the estate. Filth from the stables and the gardens embedded beneath his fingernails and settled in the creases and calluses of his palm.
A familiar mortification welled within his chest as he smoothed the hand over his shirt, hoping to buff some of the dirt off like an apple before trying the latch and peering around the door.
Titus loved that—unlike the rest of her family—Honoria slept with all her drapes tied open and the window nearest the honeysuckle vines cracked to allow the scent of the gardens to waft inside. It didn’t seem to matter the season or the weather, he’d look up to her window to find it thusly open.
Sometimes he would sing while he worked outside. If he were lucky, the sound would draw her to the window, or at least he fancied it did, when she gazed out over the gardens.
Like the sun, he couldn’t look at her for too long.
And she barely ever glanced at him.
Titus told himself if she closed the casement against the sound, he’d never utter another note.
But she hadn’t.
It was as if she couldn’t bear to be completely shut in. As if she couldn’t bring herself to draw the drapes and close out the world.
On this morning, the November chill matched the slate grey of the pre-dawn skies visible through her corner windows. Fingers of ice stole through his vest and thin shirt, prompting him to hurry and warm the room for her.
Shivering inside, he held his breath as he eased the door closed behind him, taking extra care against waking her as she’d been drawn and quiet for a few days and often complained of headaches.
In the dimness, she was little more than a slim outline beneath a mountain of arabesque silk bedclothes curled with her back to him. Her braid an inky swath against the clean white pillow.
She occupied the second grandest bedroom, her being the eldest and all, the ceiling tall enough to boast a crystal chandelier that matched the smaller sconces flanking her headboard. More than one wardrobe stood sentinel against the white wainscoting, containing her plethora of garments and gowns, each to be worn at different times of the day or for varied soirees, teas, and other such events unimaginable to someone like him.
She favored gem-bright hues over pastels and silks over